


Skin

by spikesgirl58



Series: Working Stiffs [49]
Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can tell a lot from a man by just looking at his skin.  Not necessarily the color of it, but how he wears it and how comfortable he feels in it.  Mr. Solo, you’d think he wouldn’t have a scrap of modesty in his body, but it’s just the other way.   He’s very private, almost shy, at least around some of us.  He hides in his clothes the way some kids hide under their covers.  Although he’s not afraid, he’s… camouflaged, keeping out of sight until he needs to reveal himself.   Yet on the surface, he is open and approachable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

When you think about it, everyone is pretty much put together the same way.  Blood, muscle, some interconnecting tissue and sinews… yup, under the skin, we are all the same.  Lots of folks don’t think we are, but I’m guessing that’s their loss, not mine.  To me, I don’t care what you look like on the outside; underneath the skin is where my interest lies.

I started out in school as a physical therapist, but I just couldn’t quite get the hang of all the medical stuff.  I knew how the body was basically put together, but there were too many names to remember.  I didn’t really have the desire to get down into the nitty-gritty of all that doctor stuff.  Mostly, I just like the feel of muscle and bone beneath my hands.  I couldn't tell you the names of all the cranial nerves from the names of all the King Family, but I could find a knot in a person’s neck and work it out faster than an ice cube melts in hell.

A football buddy came to me and begged me for a back massage.  Being a good friend, I agreed.  That one led to another and then he brought a friend with him and the next thing I know, the coach approaches me and asks if I’d be interested in working as a massage therapist for the team.  Well, he didn’t call it that; his term wasn’t quite as professional sounding, but massage therapy is what I ended up studying.

There was still more book learning than I cared for, but I understood the need this time around and stuck with it.  I didn’t really ace my finals, but it was enough to get certified and into the job market.

I was at the deli one day and there was this old man waiting his turn and I noticed he was sort of standing funny and trying to rub one of his shoulders, but not quite able to get to where the pain was.  I knew exactly what he needed.  I pulled him to one side and made a friendly offer to help.  He was thankful, muttering on about how the shoulder had been giving him fits for a week now.   Five minutes later, having missed our turn at the counter, he was a new man.

He offered to pay me, but I turned him down.  It’s what one person did for another, right?  He gave me this card and offered me a job.  Told me it would be a turning point in my life.  He was right about that.

A month later, I was standing inside a steel gray room being asked questions and then told the answers.  That interview guy knew more about me than I did, practically from birth on.  Not that there was much to know.  My life was pretty much an open book and he read it with a whole lot of flourish and style.  In the end, he held out a hand to me and said, “Welcome to UNCLE, Mr. Nash.”

That was a turning point for me.  Suddenly, I was a company man, with a good salary and benefits.  I could marry and have kids without worrying about whether I’d be able to send them to college.  That sort of gift takes a lot of weight off a man’s shoulders and I was determined to thank UNCLE every day.

 

I see all sorts of bodies come through the locker room.  The ones that are the most interesting are the senior Section Two and Three agents.  Some of these guys are just a mass of walking scar tissue and I wonder, if they’d known what it would be like in the end, would they’d have chosen the same route early on?  I mean, would you purposefully choose to endure that much pain freely just for the sake of an ideal, ‘cause it sure as hell wasn’t for the money.

I was wiping down my table when I heard voices approaching.  I knew who they belonged to even before I saw the faces -- Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin.  They weren’t exactly regulars, but I knew they’d both been training hard earlier on from snatches of conversation I’d heard from other agents.  When those two got going there was always talk.

“And I’m saying no,” Mr. Kuryakin was saying.   Mr. Kuryakin doesn’t look like much in that he doesn’t have a lot of muscle definition, but trust me you don’t want to be on the receiving end of his fist.

“But why?”  Mr. Solo, he’s another one who doesn’t look like much with his clothes off, but he’s someone who can cause you a world of hurt without even breaking a sweat.

“It’s not worth losing a friendship for.”

“But who’s to say a friendship is at risk?  Couldn’t you have the best of both worlds -love and friendship?”

“Not in my experience; no, you can’t.”

They walk in, see me and stop talking all of a sudden, like they didn’t want to share the topic with me and that was fine.

“Who’s first?”  I slap my hands together and the two men exchange a wary look with one another.

“After you, Napoleon.”  Mr. Kuryakin gestures towards the table.  “After all, you are senior agent by two years.”  He winks at me and heads for the steam cabinet. 

It looks for a minute like Mr. Solo is going to refuse, but he walks to the table and hefts himself easily up onto it.  I get Mr. Kuryakin tucked away in the steam cabinet and turn my attention to his partner.

You can tell a lot from a man by just looking at his skin.  Not necessarily the color of it, but how he wears it and how comfortable he feels in it.  Mr. Solo, you’d think he wouldn’t have a scrap of modesty in his body, but it’s just the other way.   He’s very private, almost shy, at least around some of us.  He hides in his clothes the way some kids hide under their covers.  Although he’s not afraid, he’s… camouflaged, keeping out of sight until he needs to reveal himself.   Yet on the surface, he is open and approachable.

His partner is just the opposite; he’d walk in the canteen buck naked if you could give him a good enough reason to.  Ain’t a shy bone in that man’s body, but unlike Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin gives the appearance of being reserved and untouchable.   Probably just as well; I’ve seen plenty of big men fall after he ‘touched’ them a time or two…

I sort of turn my back to give Mr. Solo time to lie down on the table and get his towel just right.  His back is a mess of thin white lines.  Marks left by a Cat o’ Nine Tails the way he tells it.  Apparently, he got on a ship and the captain didn’t like the way he acted,  so he has narrow little scars to remind him to play nice with others.  Of course, it didn’t and he doesn’t. 

I work his muscles carefully.  He doesn’t like being manhandled and I keep my touch even and not too hard, working the knots out gradually as opposed to digging them out.  By the time I’m through, he’s nearly asleep on the table and I resist the urge to give him a last slap to his ass, like I used to do to the football players.  They took it as good fun; Mr. Solo, he’d be as likely to deck me as laugh about it.

I leave him there and go check on the parboiled Russian.

“You ready to come out of there, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Yes, please.”  He’s beet red and soaking wet, but nice and pliable. Now I can give him the sort of deep tissue massage he likes without inflicting any damage.  After I’m done with him, I will need a go at the steam cabinet and some attention of my own.  He’s a work out in himself.

Like Mr. Solo, he’s a walking mass of scar tissue and even sports his own whip marks, except his are wide and more pronounced.  A bullwhip, Mr. Solo told me, because I lacked the nerve to ask Mr. Kuryakin directly.

For a long time, he doesn’t say anything except grunt and gasp as I go about my job.  I work his muscles hard and then ease back.

“Have we lost Napoleon?”  It was odd to hear Mr. Kuryakin talk; he tends to keep to himself.

“I do believe we have.”  It isn’t all that unusual for folks to fall asleep on the table, but the agents usually don’t.

“Good, he can use the rest.”  There was a long pause, except for a gasp when I splashed some more alcohol on his back.    I sort of thought he’d fallen asleep too, then he asks.  “What do you think, Mr. Nash?  Can friends be lovers as well?”

“Well, I ‘spect it’s more what motivates a person.  Some friends, they’re closer than lovers and some lovers, well, I don’t think they like each very much.  Love, but not like.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, were you friends with your wife before you married?”

 I latch onto his shoulders and dig my thumbs in.  “There are different kinds of friends.  There are the guys you hang with because it’s expected, the ones you hang with because they think like you and then there are the special ones.  They’re the kind that you can’t get enough of, like when you’re apart from them for a few hours and it feels like days.  Just like with love.  There are women you just want to have, and the ones you don’t want to, but like anyway because they’re funny or kind or just nice.  Then there are the special ones.”

“Like your wife?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I was with plenty of women before her, but I took one look at her and I didn’t just want to climb in the sack with her.”  I stop then, a little embarrassed.  “I just wanted to be with her, like she filled up a part of me I didn’t even know was empty. I didn’t even try to get her in bed because it was more than that; I knew the sex, when it happened, would be glorious, but even if it didn’t happen, it didn’t exactly matter.”

“And was it?”

“Glorious.”  Him I did slap.  “It was better than glorious.  Talk about the heavens moving and the earth shaking.  It was worth every minute I waited.  If you can find someone who can be both that sort of lover and friend at the same time…”  I stop again and think of my wife and sigh.  “A man’s heart can explode from sheer happiness.”

“And you listen to him but not to your partner,” Mr. Solo grumbles, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Napoleon, your advice is shockingly unreliable at times.”

“Not in this, not now.  It’s just dinner, Illya.”

“Yes… just dinner… and after….”

“I guess that’s up to you… whether you willing to wait for that moment Mr. Nash was talking about or are too worried about messing things up.” 

I gather up my towels and left them, still talking.  I didn’t know who had Mr. Kuryakin’s heart in such a state, but I knew it wasn’t any of my business.  His partner could advise him best.  After all, those two were closer than brothers. 

 

About a month later, I was in the Canteen, having a bit of a snack before heading back to the gym when I saw them, sitting at a table, talking and laughing about something.  Mr. Solo, he had a bit of a bandage on his forehead and Mr. Kuryakin was sporting a black eye that had gotten to the yellow/brown stage.  I almost went up to them and asked Mr. Kuryakin how his date went, but I didn’t.  I mean if it had gone well, the gossip mills would be churning and if it didn’t, well, I didn’t want to bring up any bad feelings.

Mr. Solo rested a hand on Mr. Kuryakin’s arm, patting it, like he was comforting him or something and I think… these two, they don’t really need anyone else.  They got each other’s friendship and they seem pretty happy about that.  Sometimes having a friend is better than having a lover.  Sometimes, having a friend that close is like having a second skin.  And with it wrapped around you, you can bear just about anything.

 


End file.
